


Find My Sweet Release

by Lauralot



Series: No-Shame November [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: BDSM, Bed-Wetting, Coming In Pants, Desperation, Diapers, Dom Steve Rogers, Embarrassment, Grinding, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, No-Shame November, Omorashi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Praise Kink, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Shame, Wetting, shameboners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-28 19:08:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8459554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: "I love you, Bucky."“I know,” Bucky says, but Steve shakes his head.“Just because I’ve told you,” he says.  “I want to prove it.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by [this prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/19023.html?thread=44954959) on the Avengerkink meme. It's also written for [No-Shame November.](http://lauralot89.tumblr.com/post/152629871371/no-shame-november-is-a-go)
> 
> In regards to the mildly dubious consent tag: This fic contains sexual acts that both parties enjoy, but that were not discussed before they happened. Bucky is also suffering from PTSD and other ailments related to his trauma during the course of the story, though he never loses touch with reality during the course of the story.

It starts in the store.

More accurately, it started well before that, right at dawn when they were still running around the monuments and Steve kept pulling water bottles from his backpack. Most of them were for Bucky because Bucky refused to go out without long sleeves to hide his prosthetic and, even before daybreak, the humidity weighed down on him, stinging his eyes and soaking through his shirt. Steve had never pressed about the long sleeves, though the temperature rose a little more with each day that dragged by. Steve made the rules, but so far he’d allowed Bucky his security blankets.

It only becomes a problem once they walk through the automatic doors and the chill of the grocery section strikes Bucky, making his sweat-damp skin prickle beneath his clothes. Around the monuments, it hadn’t been pressing. Not even a need, really, just a reminder.

Now it’s an urge, heavy and insistent, deep in Bucky’s stomach. He has no idea how much he’s had to drink since they left the apartment this morning; Steve had kept track of that, and once the summer sun had risen, it felt as if the water perspired out as fast as Bucky could drink it. But suddenly he’s full of it and painfully aware of how much his body doesn’t want to be.

“Here,” Steve says, guiding Bucky to a vacant shopping cart. “Push that.”

Bucky nods, grateful for the distraction. He grips the handle tight, following after Steve. It’s the first time he’s gone shopping that he can remember. Steve had told him they were going last night and Bucky had felt a different pull in his stomach then, adrenaline churning inside him. Apart from the morning runs and the one visit to a hospital, Bucky has never been in public since he’d returned to Steve. Last night he could hardly sleep for worrying, afraid that he’d become overwhelmed and hurt someone or have a panic attack in the middle of the freezer section.

But now his only concern is preserving his dignity. Not humiliating himself. Not humiliating _Steve_. Steve already has enough to deal with thanks to Bucky. He deserves to be able to buy food for once without having to worry about his stupid, broken Soldier.

And anyway, Bucky should be able to hold it. _Can_ hold it. It’s been three hours at most since they left the apartment. The Winter Soldier was regularly in the field for twelve hours or more. He’d held it then.

Except the times he couldn’t and the handlers had laughed at him, stupid brain-dead soldier with tears in his eyes and piss down his legs.

Those were the taunts in his mind when he’d begged Steve to take control.

It had been a mess, those first few weeks. Bucky was more machine than man then, working off the programming still burned into his skull and panicking whenever it started to break down, leaving smoke and sparking wires instead of objectives and orders. He’d been sick whenever he tried to eat, sick with worry and guilt and fear of poison, of retaliation by HYDRA for abandoning them. He’d torn out locks of hair with the metal hand and bit nearly down to the bones of his flesh fingers. He’d attacked Steve for suggesting he see a doctor. He’d attacked Steve for walking up behind him, for turning on lights in the night—didn’t he know they were _watching_?—for looking familiar and making the smoke in Bucky’s brain that much hazier, for _being_.

But the very worst thing had been the nightmares.

They haven’t stopped, but at least now Bucky’s stable enough to tell where the dreams end and reality begins. Back then, the two were hopelessly mixed like broken yolk and egg white, and the runny egg had become blood in the dreams and piss on the sheets, and he’d cry in his sleep and waking up still screaming, screaming until neighbors knocked on the door or shouted that they were going to call the police.

“I have to go,” Bucky had said after one especially bad night. The pajama pants Steve had given him were dry by then, but his thighs still burned and the bed, Steve’s bed, reeked of ammonia. The sun was up, so he was mostly sure he was awake. The dreams happened in the dark. And Steve’s face would be more than just scratched in a dream. “I’m hurting you. I’m a liability.”

“Buck, no,” Steve had said. His eyes were so wide and wet. Bucky had woken up trying to claw them out. “We’ll figure this out. I’m not gonna abandon you. You’re my friend—”

“I don’t need a friend!” The words had come out in a frustrated shout. “I need a handler! I don’t know what I’m doing! I don’t know how to be your Bucky! You have to tell me, punish me. That’s the only way I can be good!”

“You—you don’t have to be my Bucky,” Steve had said, but he looked pained, as if he were speaking through a mouthful of broken glass. “I mean—you’ll always be my Bucky. No matter what’s changed. I’m not going to order you around, Buck. I’ll never punish you. You’re a person, you’re not—”

“I’m not a person! Not in any way that matters!” That part of him was burned out long ago, and looking at Steve’s bloodied face now, Bucky was sure that nothing human could ever rise from the ashes. “I need to be controlled. I’m dangerous. You have to tell me how to act.”

“I—” Steve had been biting his lip, and Bucky had to sit on his own hands to keep from intervening. He’d already hurt Steve so much. Steve shouldn’t hurt himself too. “I—you should get cleaned up, Bucky. I—I need to think.”

It hadn’t been an order, no matter how badly Bucky tried to pretend otherwise. But when he was through in the shower, Steve had been waiting for him at the kitchen table. There were imprints in his lip from where his teeth had worried at it.

“I can tell you what to do,” Steve had said slowly, brows furrowed. “If that’s really what you want, if you think it’ll help you.” He raised a hand to silence Bucky before Bucky could respond. “But I’m not punishing you, Buck. I’m not your handler, and until I’m sure that you understand that, we have to tread carefully. There have to be rules.” 

And that was how it started. They’d each picked a word, a safe one, and promised that whenever they said the words, there would be no orders and no obeying. They’d just be Steve and Bucky, and neither would get to put any power or influence over the other. Steve’s word was liver, because he said—and Bucky vaguely remembered—he’d always hated the taste of it. Bucky’s word was cryo. He hadn’t disliked cryo; it was calm and peaceful in the icy darkness. But he knew that would make Steve sad to hear, so he would never say the word around him.

The first real order came that night. There had been simple, easy orders through the day: “Eat this” and “Put your plate in the sink” and “Hand me that.” Steve had been feeling his way through it, the earliest orders coming out like questions. Bucky had never hesitated to do as he was told. Not until he went to try and sleep and found a box of diapers on the bed.

“Put one on.” Steve’s voice. Steve had come in behind him, and it took all Bucky had not to jump. His face burned. Steve wanted him to wear diapers. Steve had bought diapers to make Bucky wear them. This had to be why he agreed to order Bucky around in the first place. He was probably laughing inside at the chance, and he was going to laugh at Bucky now. Even HYDRA, when they mocked the Soldier for accidents or threw buckets of water over him, had never made him wear diapers. They hadn’t taken their jokes that far. No.

Bucky turned around, a refusal starting in his throat. The sound died before it reached his lips. Steve wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were downcast when he spoke. “Put one on, Buck. It’ll help.”

It wasn’t a joke. It was disgust. Steve was disgusted that Bucky so was pathetic, so repulsed by his failure to control his own body that Steve couldn’t stand to look at him. Bucky couldn’t fathom why Steve even let him stay here.

Wordless, he turned again, grabbing the box and carrying it to the bathroom.

His hands shook when he pulled the diaper up over his hips. Bucky tried not to look, stepping into his pants immediately after, but he couldn’t bring himself to open the door. Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes and he bit his fingers until they cleared away.

When he forced himself out of the bathroom, Steve was already in the bed, his eyes shut. He didn’t stir when Bucky lay beside him, didn’t check to see if his order had been obeyed. Bucky was too repulsive even for that. He closed his own eyes, cheeks burning, trying not to disturb Steve’s rest. Trying not to feel the padding between his legs.

And he tried not to feel pathetically grateful in the morning when he hadn’t drenched the sheets and Steve, for once.

Now he feels panic, the handle of the shopping cart slick with the sweat from his palm. It’s so cold in the store and Bucky keeps praying for his body to adjust, but each passing minute only makes the need that much worse. He tries to will himself to think of something, anything else. Anticipation can be a worse torment than physical pain. When Bucky was the Soldier, sometimes they’d have him sit with a captive for hours before the interrogation even began. Most of those captives had spilled their guts before the Soldier even drew a blade.

Bucky forces himself to focus on the shopping cart. He doesn’t think there were shopping carts in Brooklyn, not at the markets where his mother had gone. People carried bags with them. Canvas, not plastic. And so many stands and stalls had been outdoors; his mother held his hand when he was very small, so he wouldn’t get lost weaving between bodies on the street.

Steve is weaving between carts now, slipping around people to get to the orange juice. He turns around once he retrieves the carton , but now a stranger has stopped right in front of him, staring at the shelves of the opposite aisle, and he can’t move without pushing her aside.

“Here,” Bucky says. He reaches out to take the carton from Steve, so at least that can go in the cart while they wait for the aisle to grow less crowded. He takes the juice in his right hand and regrets it immediately. The carton is even colder than the air around them, and slick with condensation besides. Just touching it sends a sudden urge through Bucky, stronger than ever, and it’s all he can do to keep his knees from buckling.

“You okay?” Steve asks.

“Fine.” The spasm passes as quickly as it came on, and Bucky’s able to straighten up without the pull in his belly growing unbearable. The other shoppers are moving on, and Bucky’s never been so thankful to be able to move. He doesn’t think he could stand still even if Steve ordered him, though that’s what he was doing just a minute ago. It might as well have been an hour ago, for how much worse the need’s become.

There are restrooms in the store. Bucky doesn’t know where, but there’s a vague memory in his head of a directory sign overhead when they entered. He hadn’t taken a closer look because the shock of the cold was so distracting. He could excuse himself now, hand the cart over to Steve and make his way back through the beverages and all the exotic organic produce Bucky can’t even name, find the bathroom and end the cramping ache in his abdomen. His eyes nearly flutter just thinking about it.

But then he’d be alone.

He’d be alone with strangers and Steve wouldn’t be beside him.

This is the first time they’ve been anywhere with people since Steve said Bucky had to go to the hospital. He said he’d been worried about lasting damage from what HYDRA had done to Bucky. Bucky had been worried that HYDRA would find him if he left Steve’s apartment. That they’d pretend to be doctors in the hospital and make him sick, or make him be their Soldier again. That he’d snap even without HYDRA there to cause it, that he’d kill innocent people and get Steve into so much trouble.

He’d spent the day clinging to Steve, knowing he was squeezing painfully tight on his friend’s arm but unable to stop himself. He’d hidden his face against Steve’s side, shaking, unable to answer or even look at the doctors until Steve coaxed him into it. And on the Metro ride home, Bucky couldn’t stop crying, even though nothing at the hospital had really hurt. Steve had looked so tired that night. Bucky never wanted him to look that way again.

He bites his tongue now, trying to walk after Steve with his thighs pressed as tightly together as possible. They’re almost done. There’s only a few more things on the list Steve wrote last night. Bucky can hold on. He has to hold on. He can’t make a mess, can’t ruin today when Steve finally thought he was doing well enough to go back in public. Steve hasn’t even had any people over since Bucky came to live with him, except for the doctor he pays to listen to Bucky talk about HYDRA, the one who gives Bucky pills that are supposed to help him stop hurting himself and Steve.

Steve puts a bag of rice in the cart and that’s the last thing on the list and Bucky swallows a sob of relief. His right hand is shaking; he had to take the left one off of the cart for fear that he’d shatter the handle if another surge of need made him clench up. He can’t be still once they enter the checkout line, twisting his hips as subtly as his desperation allows, crossing his legs whenever they come to a stop. Once they finally, finally load the groceries onto the conveyor belt, the cashier starts making conversation with Steve and Bucky has to clamp a hand to his mouth to keep from shouting at her. He crouches down, wondering if he can shove a hand between his legs without being noticed, but then Steve’s looking his way and Bucky has to pretend to be looking at the magazine racks instead.

 _Ask him_ , he thinks, forcing himself to straighten up as the cashier hands Steve a receipt. _Ask him to go in with you before you leave._

But then the shopping bags would be sitting there with no one to watch them. They’d get stolen, or they’d be in everybody’s way. And public bathrooms are disgusting. Bucky had spent enough time in them after he left HYDRA to know, hiding from the weather and trying to keep himself even slightly clean. They’re barely a mile from home. Bucky can hold it. Steve already thinks he’s disgusting for being unable to control himself at night; what would he think if he knew Bucky was just as pathetic during the day?

Bucky takes half of the bags as they walk out the doors. It’s much warmer outside, but by now that’s not much consolation. With his hands full, Bucky can no longer hold himself, and the waistband of his running shorts feels painfully tight even though it’s made to stretch.

He bolts off in the direction of the apartment, not quite at a run. Bucky doubts he _could_ run and stay dry at this point. Even the thought of taking long strides in this state makes him feel nauseated. Bucky doesn’t glance back as he moves, not bothering to see if Steve is keeping pace. It isn’t until he reaches an intersection with the “Don’t Walk” sign illuminated that Bucky even notices Steve, standing beside him as he tries to keep from writhing in place.

“Buck?” Steve asks. “You all right?”

Bucky nearly says _fine_ but his bladder contracts and he’s _not_ fine, and if he tries to say anything he’ll probably moan. He nods, stomping his foot against the ground in frustration and trying to disguise it as particularly forceful step when the “Walk” sign comes on.

“Bucky?”

“I want to go home,” he says, sounding strangled. Everything hurts, like the whole of his body is overridden by the desperate urge to void. Bucky can’t remember ever feeling pain like this before, even know he logically knows that he’s survived much worse. He can’t be logical now. He can’t do anything but shuffle on and beg his body to hold out.

“You did really well,” Steve says. “I know you were worried about being around so many strangers, but you—”

There’s a contraction that feels more like a blow to the stomach than anything else, and there’s white-hot wetness seeping into his shorts. Bucky can’t stop the sound that escapes him—a sort of choked grunt—and he can’t keep from dropping the bags either, both hands shoving between his legs involuntarily. He’s doubled over, heart racing, unable to tell if he’s feeling mostly piss under his fingers or mostly the sweat from his hand.

“Oh Bucky,” Steve says, and Bucky can’t focus enough to tell if he’s speaking in annoyance, pity, or disgust. He’s vaguely aware of Steve scrambling around him, grabbing the bags. “Come on, we’re almost home. You can make it.”

He can’t, there’s no way, it hurts so bad, he _can’t_ , but Steve said it and Bucky’s hobbling after him, trying to pretend that it’s an order and he can make himself obey.

“It’s okay, Bucky,” Steve says, except it’s not at all. “Why didn’t you go at the store?”

“I—” Bucky stammers. “I didn’t—”

Then they’re rounding a corner and the apartment is right there and Bucky’s body gives out.

It’s just heat coursing down his thighs at first, so forceful and hot that it doesn’t even feel wet. But he can _see_ it, streaking down his legs and soaking into his socks, dripping off his shoelaces. It hurts even now that he’s letting go, like his body can’t release fast enough to satisfy itself. But there’s relief too, growing stronger and stronger as his piss splatters on the sidewalk, and Bucky feels dizzy with it.

He can’t move. He can’t speak. Both the flow and the pleasure ebb and now Bucky’s just standing in a rapidly cooling puddle, drenched with urine and sweat and panic. He can feel Steve’s eyes on him. He doesn’t know how Steve can bear the sight of him.

They make it back inside the apartment, although Bucky can’t say how. He’s drawn into himself too tightly to care where he’s moving, as if he can hide in the dark spaces at the back of his mind like he used to hide in the ice and just stay there until everyone who ever knew his name is dead and gone and then maybe the shame will dissipate. 

He only realizes that they’re in the apartment because he’s suddenly cold, colder than he was outside, and not the restful cold that shields him from the world. He looks down and he’s in Steve’s bathroom and Steve’s pulled Bucky’s shorts down around his ankles, wiping at his legs with a warm washcloth.

“It’s not your fault, Buck,” Steve’s saying. “It was just an accident, I should have asked before we—”

He says more but Bucky doesn’t hear it. His blood is hot and roaring in his ears, drowning out all other sounds. How can Steve try to comfort him after what he’s done? How can he bear to let Bucky into his home, let alone touch him? Bucky’s already failed to be a functional human being, let alone to be the friend that Steve misses. And now he’s failed to even keep his pants dry. But Steve’s still speaking to him. _Cleaning_ him. And the washcloth is warm, and Steve’s other hand rests on Bucky’s hip, gentle and steadying.

His heartbeat isn’t so loud in Bucky’s ears now. Steve’s still speaking, his voice so soft, but Bucky can’t hear the words because his blood is moving and he feels himself _stir_ and he’s pulling away, grabbing a towel to cover himself but it’s too late, Steve is staring, Steve _saw._

He slams the bedroom door shut, crouching down behind the bed, and he doesn’t move all day, not when Steve knocks at the door with food and not when the doctor stops by to talk. Bucky doesn’t want to talk.

Besides, there aren’t words for anything that Bucky could want to say.

*

Steve is asleep beside Bucky. Every time he breathes, the blankets rise a little with his chest. Every time, Bucky feels it, unable to forget Steve’s presence beside him even though he’s turned away. He can’t understand why Steve still shares a bed with him.

He can’t understand anything Steve does, not lately.

Bucky only has a handful of memories from the time before HYDRA. Which isn’t to say he has many memories of his time as the Soldier either; HYDRA hadn’t needed him to remember much beyond how to shoot and fight. But with HYDRA, there are at least whole memories. Before that, he has vague impressions: images and sounds and tastes. He doesn’t know if he lost his past to the fall or the chair.

What Bucky does know is that, in the memories he has, Steve used to kiss him.

He remembers the kisses were on the mouth, not the forehead like the kiss he saw a mother at the hospital give to her daughter. He remembers they did more than kiss. He remembers Steve’s hands pulling him close, grazing his jaw and the small of his back. The hands had been gentle like they were in the bathroom.

It would make sense for Steve to still treat him so kindly if he had his old Bucky back.

But he doesn’t, and Steve has to know that. Steve doesn’t touch him the way he did in the memories. Even today, Steve’s hands hadn’t been on him to love him, only to wipe up his mess. He clearly has no interest in having the old relationship with Bucky now. Steve must keep him around out of nostalgia or pity. Maybe he believes he owes it to Bucky. Maybe the doctors at the hospital told Steve that Bucky was brain-damaged or just irretrievably broken and Steve lets him stay out of guilt.

It’s more than Bucky deserves after all the harm he’s caused. After the mess he made today. His face burns in the darkness and he covers it with his hands, even though Steve isn’t awake to see.

It had felt nice when Steve cleaned him. None of his handlers had ever been so soft when the Soldier came back bloodied and dirty from the field. Steve’s not a handler, Bucky knows that, but he has no other basis for comparison.

The touches had been gentle and the words reassuring, and for the seconds before reality kicked in, Bucky had felt as if he hadn’t been bad. It was never like that when he woke in the morning, wet and ashamed. Bucky always locked himself in the bathroom to clean up. The diapers were hidden at the back of the linen closet and he shoved the ones he peeled off upon waking to the very bottom of the garbage. He scrubbed himself down each day and the water was always cold because Bucky didn’t give it the time to warm up. He didn’t want to _think_ about what he was doing, he just wanted it done.

Lying in the dark, Bucky can’t keep himself from wondering what it would be like if Steve cared for him in the mornings, too.

He could lie in bed instead of hauling himself up to hide in the bathroom. Steve wouldn’t laugh at him. He’d smile, and there’d be no mockery in his eyes when he eased the pajama bottoms off of Bucky’s legs. There would be no shame in it when Steve wiped his skin clean, just warmth and safety. Maybe Steve would tell him it was okay like he had in the bathroom. And if it happened in the night, Steve would help Bucky step into a clean diaper and hold him in the bed until the nightmares faded and he could sleep again. Maybe he would kiss Bucky. Not even the way he had in the memories, slow and sensual. Just a touch, just so Bucky would know that Steve was there and that he loved him. Maybe on the forehead, or the stomach, just above the plastic waistband...

Bucky’s hard again, much harder than he’d been in the bathroom.

He’s immediately, terribly cold with horror, but flushed with shame and disgust at the same time. The only thing that keeps Bucky from smothering himself with his pillow is the fact that he’s already pulled it out from under him and pressed it hard against his groin, compelled to hide himself. In the dark. From the man asleep beside him.

He’s beyond fucked up, but knowing that doesn’t make him flag in the slightest.

*

“Bucky? You awake?”

Bucky’s mouth kicks in before his brain does, making some sound that doesn’t remotely resemble any of the languages he speaks. He blinks against the sunlight filtering in through the half-drawn shades, rubbing cool metal fingers against his sleep-clouded eyes. Then Steve’s hand, warm and broad, strokes up and down Bucky’s back before resting on his shoulder, pulling Bucky out of his tired haze that much more quickly.

It isn’t until he’s fully awake that he remembers yesterday, and even then he barely has time to blush before Steve is speaking. “Are you—do you need to change?”

And then Bucky’s face _is_ red, and so burning hot that Steve must be able to feel it even from the other side of the bed. The diaper is warm and wet between his legs just like every other morning, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his face. “I—I—”

“You need to get changed,” Steve says. His face is tinged pink, but he says it as easily as he might order Bucky to pass the remote. “Put on another diaper and get dressed, okay? I’ll be in the living room.”

Of course. Steve doesn’t trust him to keep himself clean during the day now either, and why would he? He doesn’t even trust Bucky to know when he’s wet, or probably when he needs to go. Bucky imagines the rest of his life spent with Steve reminding him every few hours to go in the bathroom, and wonders how long that can possibly last before he drops dead of humiliation. “I don’t need—that’s not—”

“Trust me, Buck.” Steve looks worried when he says it, almost pleading, but then he straightens up and seems to force his face into neutrality. “You said you wanted me to give you orders. Trust me. I’ll take care of you.”

The diapers aren’t thick, but Bucky finds that the feel of one under jeans is completely different from the feeling of padding and flannel that he’s grown accustomed to. It’s the only sensation he can focus on, pacing around the small space of the bathroom, butterflies swarming in his stomach. There’s a sense of security with the diapers at night, as pathetic as that is. At least he won’t ruin Steve’s bed. At least when he wakes up soaked these days, he’s warm and not cold. But this is different. It’s one thing for his body to betray him while he’s sleeping. It’s another when Steve’s so sure that he’ll fail during the day.

The bathroom walls seem to move that much closer in every time Bucky circles the room. He stops before the door, forcing his fingers out of his mouth when he makes himself leave the safety of the bathroom.

“Do you remember your safe word, Bucky?” Steve asks. He’s sitting on the couch, holding the morning paper. There’s a glass of water on the kitchen table.

“Cryo,” Bucky says, and what he wouldn’t give to be there now. His face is so hot, and he can’t shake the feeling that Steve can hear the plastic with every step he takes. Like Steve doesn’t know what he’s wearing. Like Steve’s opinion of him could get any lower.

“Bucky,” Steve says. Then he’s quiet, quiet for so long that Bucky would think that’s all he had to say if not for the way his mouth is working. Like he has words but can’t figure out the order they go in.

Bucky stands straight and still, silent, waiting.

When Steve speaks again, he clears his throat first. In the quiet of the room, it’s like a gunshot. “I love you, Bucky.”

Bucky can’t speak. He tries to remember if he took his pills yesterday. He wants to pinch himself, but he worries that if he moves, Steve will realize that the Bucky he has now isn’t the one he loved.

“I know things aren’t the way they used to be,” Steve continues. He’s set the paper aside, though his fingers still twist at a corner of the front section. “I know they probably never will be. But you’re still the most important person in the world to me, and whatever else has changed, that never will. There’s nothing you could ever do that would make me think less of you, Buck. More than anything, I just want you to feel safe.”

Bucky realizes he’s holding his breath, but he can’t seem to work out how to let it out again.

“I know you get scared,” Steve adds. His eyes haven’t left Bucky’s once since he started talking. How can he look at Bucky like he’s the only thing in the world after all that Bucky’s done? “I know we’ve had setbacks. But if I’ve ever made you feel unwanted or wrong or...or bad, I haven’t mean to. It’s just that I’m scared too.”

“You?” Bucky hears himself before he realizes he’s speaking. Steve was never scared in any of the memories. Even on the helicarrier, he’d looked more sad than anything else.

“I’ve been so scared that I’ll screw this up, Buck.” Steve runs a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. Bucky wants to smile at that, even though he feels like shaking. “That you’ll see me as a handler no matter what, or I’ll pressure you into feeling like you have to live up to my memories. There’s—I’ve kept my distance about things because I didn’t want to embarrass you, but I think I’ve just made you feel unwanted. And that’s something I have to change. I’ll never punish you, Bucky. I’ll never reject you, no matter what.”

“I know,” Bucky says, but Steve shakes his head.

“Just because I’ve told you,” he says. “I want to prove it.”

Another moment of silence stretches by. Bucky can hear Steve’s wristwatch ticking from across the room.

“We’re staying in today,” Steve says. “Right in this room. And you can say the safe word whenever you want, Bucky, if you need to. I promise you I won’t be mad. But just...trust me, okay? Let me take care of you.”

Bucky nods. He feels dizzy again. “Okay,” he says, just to hear his voice out loud. To be sure that this is happening, whatever it is.

“Drink the water,” Steve says.

There’s probably a pint in the glass. It slides down easily enough in one long swallow. Bucky had brushed his teeth in the bathroom, but his throat is still dry from sleep, and the water is cool. It doesn’t quell the worry in his stomach, but Bucky doubts that anything could.

“Good,” Steve says. “Now fill it back up and do that again.”

*

After the fifth glass of water, Steve tells Bucky that’s enough. The water stopped going down so easily after the second glass; the fifth had been consumed in little sips that took nearly a quarter of an hour. Now Bucky can feel all the water, making its way through his stomach even faster than yesterday. Maybe it’s faster because his body’s still tired from the last accident. Maybe it’s just because he’s lost control once before and now he’s afraid to do it again.

“Don’t be scared, Bucky,” Steve says, looking at him over the paper. He’s been saying it a lot, ever since Bucky had looked at him wide-eyed when Steve told him to drink a third glass. “You can let go whenever you need to. You won’t make a mess. Even if you do, it’s no big deal.”

It _is_ a big deal. He never goes to bed bursting like this, and if he lets go now, he’ll make a huge mess, almost as bad as yesterday. It’s one thing to have an accident when he can’t help it, when he’s unconscious or just at his breaking point. It’s different this time. It’s dirty and shameful and _bad_ , no matter what Steve says.

“You don’t have to hold it if it hurts.” Steve sounds so calm and normal, as if Bucky isn’t squirming on the living room floor, struggling not to piss himself. “Just relax. You want the sports section?”

Bucky shakes his head more frantically than he intends. He thinks of dogs suddenly, remembers someone laying down newspaper for a puppy. He doesn’t know what the memory is from. But the thought of newspaper makes the urges even worse and Bucky finds himself rocking on the floor. Sweat beads along his hairline. He’s biting his lip.

“Okay,” Steve says. “Breathe, Bucky.”

It’s probably not intended as an order, but Bucky takes it as one. Eyes squeezed tightly shut, he tries to count his breaths, inhaling and exhaling in time with his body’s swaying as he rocks in place. He stings and aches all at once, scared and needy and so exhausted even though he held out much longer yesterday. There’s something tight around his hands and there’s a second of panic before Bucky realizes it’s just the hem of his shirt, wound up in and around his fists. He’s stretching the fabric. The panic only heightens the urges, and Bucky doubles over on himself with a groan.

Steve’s hand is petting his hair now, managing not to pull even with all of Bucky’s wriggling. “Shhh,” he says. “I’ve got you, Buck. I’m right here.”

Sweat slides down Bucky’s face and that doesn’t help at all. He whimpers, wanting to cover his mouth, but his hands are so tangled in his shirt that he doesn’t know where to begin freeing himself. “I have to _go._ “

“That’s okay.”

It’s not okay. Bucky’s wound up like a cable about to snap. He can hear the plates in his left arm whirring and shifting, as incapable of stillness as the rest of him. Bucky’s so tense that it seems impossible for him to release no matter how bad the pain gets, physics be damned. He shakes his head, feeling another whine in his throat that he doesn’t even try to block. “Steve, I have to _go_.”

“Come here,” Steve says, and his hands are under Bucky’s arms then, lifting him from the floor effortlessly in spite of Bucky’s squirming. He ends up writhing on Steve’s lap, his own hands and the shirt in them jammed tight between his legs. “I’ve got you, Buck. I love you. And I’m not mad, I’ll never be mad about something I asked you to do.”

“I can’t hold it,” Bucky whispers. Steve’s arms around his middle now, pulling him close, and his stomach twinges violently but he doesn’t want Steve to let go. He’s going to break apart one way or another, and he can’t hold all the pieces together of his own. “I really, really can’t hold it.”

“I don’t expect you to.” Steve rests his head against Bucky’s shoulder, apparently not caring that he’s being jostled by Bucky’s frantic movements. “Trust me, Bucky. I’ll take care of you.”

Bucky tries, really tries to believe it, even as tears are welling in his eyes. Steve didn’t throw him out after yesterday. He didn’t get sick of Bucky before the diapers, back when Bucky was soaking the sheets. And he let Bucky stay with him after Bucky had come so close to killing him. Maybe this is okay if Steve says so.

But his body has other ideas, cramping up worse than ever. It’s one thing to tell himself it’ll be okay. His body knows different, remembers the HYDRA agents who laughed when he couldn’t hold it, conjures up the image of the nuns in school scolding the little kids who couldn’t wait for a break. His bladder spasms harder than ever, but the only thing that escapes him is a groan.

One of Steve’s hands is off of Bucky’s midsection, dislodging his own hands between his legs. He pats his palm against the crotch of Bucky’s jeans, pressing against the padding and checking—Bucky realizes, face burning more than ever—to see if Bucky’s wet. “Let go, Bucky.”

It’s an order and Bucky wants to obey more than he can ever remember wanting anything, but he can’t make his body relax any more than he can make it be still. “I can’t I can’t I want to I really really wanna but I can’t Steve I’m sorry I’m so sorry I don’t want to be bad I can’t—”

“You’re not bad, Bucky.” Steve holds tighter, his hair tickling Bucky’s throat. “You’re being so brave for me, it’s okay. Let me help.” 

Bucky can’t ask what help means, both because he’s moved past words in his desperation and because Steve demonstrates it immediately thereafter, the hand still wrapped around Bucky gently pressing on his stomach as Steve jostles his legs a little, causing Bucky to yelp.

There’s a hot spurt of urine into the diaper, cut off almost the second it begins by Bucky’s reflexes. But Steve is still massaging his stomach and the need is stronger than ever after the leak, and it’s only a few more seconds before the piss is gushing out of him, hissing as it fills the diaper. There are tears leaking out of Bucky’s eyes and he doesn’t know if they’re from shame or relief, but Steve’s hand is between his legs again, feeling the heat coursing there, and he says “That’s right, Bucky,” and he says “That’s good,” and he’s still holding Bucky tight and he’s all Bucky needs.

“Just let go,” Steve murmurs, soothing, still rubbing Bucky’s aching stomach. “Use your diaper. Good boy, you’re my good boy, Bucky.”

The words wash over Bucky like the piss he can feel leaking into his jeans. Bucky can’t worry about that now, can’t focus on anything Steve’s saying long enough to process it. He’s lost in the _feeling_ , the bliss of relief and the contentment of being in Steve’s arms, warm and safe like he used to be so long ago. It’s no problem if he makes a mess. Steve’s got him and Steve says he’s _good_ , and nothing else matters.

It lasts forever and when the flow of urine finally ebbs Bucky’s almost panting, overwhelmed by the rush of relief. He feels limp, the way he used to after HYDRA’s endurance tests, and he doubts he could stand up if he needed to. But he doesn’t need to, because Steve’s still holding him tight. Steve’s lap has gone hard underneath Bucky, but he can’t focus on that, can’t single out any one thing in the rush of stimuli returning now that the all-encompassing need is sated.

At least, he can’t focus until Steve’s hand moves from between his legs, delving under his waistband and into his diaper.

Bucky’s mouth falls open though no sound comes out, as if his throat’s confused as to whether it should gasp or moan. Steve’s hand is all wet, wet and warm and stroking Bucky, and he doesn’t even seem to care that he’s getting dirty. All the rest of Bucky’s body still feels wilted with fatigue, but he’s hard now, at least as hard as Steve.

“It’s okay, Bucky.” Steve sounds breathless, his hand working furiously between Bucky’s legs, so warm and wet and _good_. “You’ve been so good for me, just trust me now. Gonna take care of you, I promise. I’m gonna make you feel so good, you deserve to feel good. I love you Bucky, I’ll always love you.”

His thumb flicks over the head of Bucky’s cock and Bucky finally finds his voice, a low moan escaping him as his hips jerk in Steve’s lap. “I wanted—” he says, but then Steve does something with his wrist as he’s stroking and Bucky’s incoherent. “I wanted you to—”

“I know, Buck,” Steve says, and Bucky believes he does know, all of it, like he could see into Bucky’s mind in the bathroom yesterday, flip through all the fantasies that weren’t even fully realized until last night. “I want to take care of you, make you feel good. You’ve been so good today, let me help you out. It's okay to let me help.”

It feels so good, so warm and safe and like nothing Bucky can ever remember feeling. No one’s ever allowed him to lose control without punishment. No one’s ever praised him for something messy and involuntary, and if that’s _good_ , it feels like he can never be bad. Steve always says he’ll love Bucky no matter what, but this is the first time the sincerity’s sunken in. It’s overwhelming. “I’m good?”

“So good,” Steve says, and he’s half-mouthing the words against Bucky’s throat, kissing and speaking all at once. “So good.”

Bucky’s glowing, trembling. He feels another moan rising in his throat and slides his fingers in his mouth to dampen it, but Steve has his wrist immediately, guiding his hands away. 

“It’s okay. It's just me here, Bucky. Just you and me. It's okay.”

And Steve’s hand is going faster and faster, his breath on Bucky’s throat as warm and good as the soaked padding shifting against Bucky with every twitch of his hips, and this time when the pressure builds low in his stomach there’s no pain. Bucky cries out, body jerking as he comes over Steve’s hand, spurting on the hem of his shirt and down the front of his jeans. Steve’s still stroking through the orgasm, milking the very last drops until Bucky’s squirming weakly in his hold, exhausted and sated and happier than he can ever remember being.

He’s not sure how long Steve lets him stay that way, sprawled bonelessly against Steve’s body. There are still tears leaking from his eyes, from shame and relief and just feeling too much, but Steve wipes them away, letting Bucky rest against him as he murmurs praises too faint for Bucky to really follow. It feels perfect, so of course it’s too soon when Steve’s hands are on him again, nudging him up. “Come on, Buck. We need to get you changed.”

He stands up, both because he knows Steve will catch him if his legs give out and because the leaks from the diaper are growing cold on his legs. There are splotches of dampness on Steve’s thighs too, as Bucky can see once he stands, in the spots where Bucky’s body sat on his. But there’s another stain, much smaller, right at Steve’s own crotch.

Bucky trails his hand there and faintly smirks when Steve twitches, overstimulated. “Looks like you need to change too.”

He earns himself a swat on the ass for that, though Steve’s hands are wonderful and soft as he leads Bucky back to the bedroom.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hello on [Tumblr](http://lauralot89.tumblr.com)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Couldn't Keep It In](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8575873) by [WhatEvenAmI](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatEvenAmI/pseuds/WhatEvenAmI)
  * [Let You Torture Me So Sweetly](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14709207) by [WhatEvenAmI](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatEvenAmI/pseuds/WhatEvenAmI)
  * [Find My Sweet Release [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15818058) by [sarahyellow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahyellow/pseuds/sarahyellow)




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